


Echoes Through Time

by Izanagi



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izanagi/pseuds/Izanagi
Summary: A collection of one-shots and AUs featuring Zephyr and Scourge through the lenses of different worlds and timelines.
Relationships: Male Jedi Knight | Hero of Tython/Lord Scourge
Kudos: 2





	1. Vampyr (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zephyr still struggles with coming to terms with his newfound biology as a vampyr.

Zephyr looked at the words on the report and shut his eyes when the sentences and letters started blending together. It didn't make sense to be this tired lately, but he knew something wasn't right. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. He puts down the datapad beside the empty spot on the bed and gruffly shifts away. He feels the bed dipping beside him. The searing warmth of a hand creeping up on the small of his back made him flinch and he grumbled as another wave of dizziness assaults his senses.

His pulse skips a beat when he feels that large hand climbing up his spine in a glacial pace, before settling at the nape of his neck. He inhales shakily and couldn't help the shiver running down his back. Nimble fingers gently card through his short ebony hair, leaving behind a trail of warmth through his head. The grounding weight of a burly arm encloses him around his shoulders, and before he knew it, he was being drawn into an embrace. Chills wracked his body but the massive cocoon of warmth embracing him was enough to ground him for a short time.

"When's the last time you fed, love?" Scourge leaned in and whispered into his ear. He closed his eyes and felt the warm puffs of breath searing the shell of his ear, and it was almost overwhelming. "You look dismal."

Zephyr huffs weakly. "I'm fine."

His eyes closed. Scourge was a massive brick wall of heat and it was getting more difficult to stay cognizant of his surroundings. He swallowed hard and shivered as Scourge's thumb trailed up his neck, stopping to press gently at his pulse point. He doesn't even need a stethoscope to know that his pulse was galloping at a traitorous rate, and it left him feeling strangely vulnerable to know that Scourge could sense his weakness so readily.

He winced when he felt the sharp, unforgiving press of his upper canine fangs pricking the soft outer of his lip. He felt that same painful itch on his upper mandible growing with increasing intensity, and his heart sinks. It was time to feed and even his own biology knew it, regardless of how much he hates it. He reminisces back on the years where he still remembered the effects of that human hunger for normal and regular food. He lamented on what it was like to crave regular food, before the Sith Empire stripped him of his identity and turned him into a wretched experiment for their callous scientific curiosities.

_"This is fascinating. Subject X is presenting differently than the rest of the specimens."_

_"How so?"_

_"Subject X still relies on feeding on blood from living sentient beings to survive, just like the rest. However, he is the first specimen to be noticeably less aggressive. In the presence of the others, whether male or female, Subject X is rather submissive and quiet, always preferring to keep to himself."_

_"I asked for aggressive vampyrs, doctor."_

_"Ah, I haven't told the full story yet, my lord. In the trial runs where he is given the task of feeding or eliminating a target, Subject X is lethal and demonstrates a level of intelligence I have never seen before. He studies the target and observes them for a while, looking for weaknesses. Granted, Subject X is lacking in the physical arena. But whatever he lacks he ruthlessly compensates for cunning and guile. I've closely studied how he subdues his victims, my lord, and it is unlike anything I have seen. Specimen X injects a neurotransmitter that makes the source more pliable to his whims. He incites the host to be protective towards him while he is feeding, but he also incites his host to behave aggressively towards anyone he feels to be a threat."_

_"And how will that help in a battlefield where we need more cannon fodder? I do not see much use in a vampyr like that."_

_"Subject X will not survive the frontlines of combat, my lord. Judging from what I've seen, he is best suited for covert operations and assassinations. He is nonverbal since the procedure, but he understands his handlers well enough whenever they communicate with him."_

_"Has there be any problems with his . . . obedience?"_

_"Rarely, my lord. He is surprisingly obedient and submissive. My only caution would be to keep him fed regularly. The longer he goes without feeding, the more belligerent and agitated he becomes. At one point, he decapitated a handler that refused to feed him regularly. I would advise against using punishment liberally to discipline him. Specimen X becomes more aggressive and less prone to reasoning the hungrier he is."_

_"I will discipline my vampyrs the way I see fit, doctor."_

_"Apologies, my lord. I did not intend to offend."_

_"Regardless, good work. If we release this beast upon the Jedi, they will never know the horror of what is to come."_

A pang of distress lances through him and he flinches against the onslaught of memories breaking out from his mind. He lets out a soft whine and suddenly becomes aware of Scourge's presence again. Gentle hands were carding through his hair and he flinches when he feels Scourge's thumb brushing his upper lip. A scorching wave of disgust washes over him and he feels a sudden urge to withdraw from everyone and throw himself off a cliff. Rage and despair alike burned beneath his chest, rage for his stolen humanity and despair at the sobering reality of his remaining years.

He inhaled sharply when he feels that thumb pressing insistently at the tip of one of his curved fangs. A choked sob is wrenched out of his throat and he weakly tries to turn away, but the weight of another hand on his face gently stirs him back into the fold. He starts shivering again and he couldn't help the next feeble cry that came out of his throat. He still feels that thumb pressing against the sharp tip of his fang, and it wasn't until he scented a salty tang in the air that he realized he was quietly shedding tears.

"It's alright, little one, it's alright," Scourge whispered in his low baritone. Zephyr felt his other hand gently brushing away the tears on his cheek, and he leaned into the warmth of his mate's hand. "I don't love you any less. I would do whatever it takes to protect you and sustain you."

When Zephyr felt his fang breaking the first layer of skin, his heart stopped and he flinched violently when he felt the first trickle of blood landing on the tip of his tongue. A gentle hand descended on his neck, and soft words of assurance filled his ears. The desire to pull away warred with the primal instinct of feeding more.

"That's it, love. It's going to be fine," Scourge crooned into his ear, and he couldn't help but shut his eyes as a pleasant sense of bliss floods his senses.

He felt his heart rising to his throat even as the dizziness and vertigo from earlier receded into murky depths of awareness. He felt his head swaying to one side as pleasure assaulted him. He sinks to a lower level of functional awareness as the sensation of bliss and warmth engulfs his senses. The sheer relief that came from satisfying his hunger has blinded him to any other stimuli. He sinks deep into his own relief to the point that he doesn't feel Scourge manipulating his own fangs away from the bleeding mess of his mate's large hand. Scourge offered another expanse of skin on his thick forearm and gently pressed it against his fangs. Zephyr acted on pure instinct and latched on to his mate again, all forms of higher thought temporarily absent.

Zephyr slowly opened his eyes. He blinked owlishly and slowly gazed up from where he was now cradled against his mate's chest, still feeding on the offered arm. A dull pang of betrayal and shame guts his heart when he realized how effortlessly he was manipulated again to indulge his shameful biological weakness. But weak as he was, he could barely find the strength to lift his head from the comforting warmth offered by his mate's massive stature. He closed his eyes again and resigned himself to bitterly endure the metallic trail of blood slithering down his throat.

Every beat of his heart echoed the pain he felt at being so deftly manipulated to feeding on the very thing he needs to survive, and for a small moment, he wanted to hate his mate. He wants to yell at him. He wanted to, so desperately wanted, to start an argument and battle of wills against Scourge. He may have once been a human and he may be physically smaller and weaker than his pureblood Sith mate, but he is strong-willed to match.

Zephyr swallowed hard and opened his eyes again. When he feels more ounces of strength trickling back into his body, he uses the little strength required of him to muster self-control and forcefully retracts his fangs from Scourge's arm. He briefly hates himself for how his body betrays his bloodlust by twitching eagerly towards the small droplets that failed to land on his lips. He must've surprised Scourge by the suddenness of his action, as evidenced by the disgruntled sound he heard coming from above him.

"That is not nearly enough for you, Zephyr," Scourge remarked sharply.

Zephyr scowls, shaking his head weakly. "I should hate you for making me do that, again," he murmured as he forced himself to pull away from Scourge, ruthlessly stomping down on the aching yearning blossoming in his chest for the fading warmth at his back.

"We've talked about this, Zephyr," Scourge growled. "There is no need for you to be ashamed. I have already demonstrated my willingness to provide for what you need. What else have I failed to give you?"

Zephyr craned his neck to look back at his mate, feeling his breath stopping short as a painful lance of hurt shears through his chest. He doesn't know what kind of expression he's displaying, but judging from the way he sees Scourge softening away from irritation, he failed to conceal his emotional vulnerabilities again. He clenches his jaw and flares his nostrils, trying desperately to hold back the chills that started wracking his body again.

"Failed to give me? You're really asking me that? I told you already," Zephyr intoned coldly. "that I hate being manipulated to do anything. I hate the fact that you manipulated me again to feed on you."

He exhaled shakily. "I _told_ you that I didn't want to feed on anyone because it makes me feel like a monster. I was doing just fine until you did that," he winced as he heard his voice breaking, "I was fine until you manipulated me to feed on you. I told you I didn't want to feel like a monster. But you went ahead and ignored what I wanted."

He didn't realize he was crying until he felt Scourge drawing closer to him again, and engulfing him in the warmth of his presence. He felt fingers carding through his short hair and he shut his eyes as he leaned on the stability offered by his mate. A large hand cupped the back of his head and the last thread of pride withered. Zephyr weakly turned his head and nuzzled deeper into Scourge's chest. The rhythmic cadence of the Sith's strong heartbeat filled his ears and he anchored himself to the steadiness it provides.

"I'm sorry, I never knew you felt that way. But you must understand, Zephyr," Scourge caressed the back of his head with a gentleness that leaves him fraying at the edges. "That I will never apologize for taking care of you. Never will I do so. Perhaps this was not the best way to go about it. But I had no other choice. You should've seen yourself through my eyes. You were on the verge of collapse. I had to act."

He felt his heart simultaneously breaking into pieces, all the while he also feels it swelling with a volume of affection that leaves him reeling. "I hate feeding on people," he murmured, "it makes me feel dirty. I - I still don't remember much. But I get . . . glimpses. Every now and then, glimpses of the people I killed. The ones I drained. From, from _before_. I don't - I hate myself for that. _Please_. I don't hate you. But please, understand where I'm coming from. I - I can't stand feeling. Like a monster."

"You have a pure heart, Zephyr. You will never become a monster," Scourge said softly into his ear, hands and fingers still caressing his neck. "A monster has no remorse, no sense of conscience or morality. What they have done to you is unforgiveable. If I find them, I will tear their eyes out and crush their skulls with my hands. I wish I could take all of your pain and heartache. I hate seeing you in agony."

"I'm a monster."

"No, never," Scourge hissed sharply into his ear, so sharply that he flinched.

He swallowed hard. "How can you still say that?"

"Because it is the truth. You are not a monster. You didn't choose to harm and kill them," He felt a gentle kiss landing on the crown of his head. "You are beloved to me, Zephyr. You cannot possibly comprehend the depths of my passion for you. You are marvelous and I am proud of you. Your inner strength is a sight to behold. I have never known any Jedi or Sith that possess a fraction of the willpower and strength you harbor."

Even in the midst of his misery, Zephyr feels his body flushing with heat and embarassment. His pulse hitches unsteadily and he feels his heart pounding madly.

"You are a wonder to behold. Your kindness and purity of heart has opened my eyes to seeing parts of the world that I was blind to when I was Sith. You have a way of holding on to your humanity where others would have abandoned it. Nothing about you is monstrous or destestable."

Zephyr shook his head. "I don't feel like it."

He shivered again when Scourge runs a hand down his back. "You will believe me someday."


	2. Schemes and Gambits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were captured by a rogue syndicate that hated and opposed everything the Alliance stood for. Imprisoned and tortured, Zephyr starts plotting the beginnings of a prison break that would unleash his wrath on their captors.

Zephyr was going to devour them all alive.

He watches with a stony demeanor as the prison guard assigned to his cell hurled the unconscious figure of Scourge against the opposite wall, as if his Sith was nothing more than a ragdoll. He smothered the vicious snarl that he wanted to unleash on them as he heard the sickening crack of that collision reverberating through his prison cell. He kept his breathing tightly controlled and measured as he stared at the guard's scarred face through the red haze of the force-field barrier, watching as the pathetic dog smiled with manic delight.

"You should've heard him scream when we cracked his ribs, Jedi filth," the pathetic mongrel grinned smugly, eyes glazed with insanity. "For someone who used to serve the Emperor so dutifully, who could've known his soft spot is a Jedi?"

Playground insults? This was the best they could come up with? He was truly dissppointed. No one knew Scourge better than he did. Scourge always ran on pride and power and he never bent his knee to anyone, not for just any reason. He knew Scourge prided himself on his strength and he prided himself on being the protector between them. Scourge had legendary willpower and patience for endgoals that mattered, and he would have never given in, not for this gutter trash of criminal scum. Scourge would have endured to the bitter end, and he knows that because he shares exactly the same sentiment.

Scourge was fiercely protective and undyingly loyal to those he pledges his life to. The Sith may be the physically stronger of them both, but Zephyr compensated for what he lacked in raw strength with intellect and perception. He knew that he alone could cut the Achilles tendons of these scum and blot their family names from the face of the galaxy. Schemes and games of strategy were his favourite arenas to play, and their captors will find out the true cost of their misdeeds when he gets out.

When the strength of one fails, the other steps up. He will need Scourge's strength to break out from their prison.

He glances at the bruises and wounds that marked Scourge's unconscious body. He frostily gazes back at the mongrel grinning at them sadistically, hungrily devouring the facial features of this pest into his memory.

This one barely had any intellect left. If he had his way, he would be pouncing on this human, dig his thumbs through those eyeballs and pluck them clean while he feeds the carcass to his Infernal Vulptilla. But rage and hate never worked well with cold logic.

And Scourge needs him right now, which is the only reason he needs to find motivation in anything.

He would need to prioritize Scourge's recovery. Top priority is to assess the damages and concoct a plan to restore his partner's strength. They had only been prisoners for a day, but soon, he would need to work on determining what they wanted from them. He also needs to know their captor's psychology. If he can establish a baseline for that, he can deduce what conditions will permit them to be tortured by this mongrel. If he can also make an educated guess on the prison's layout and guard patterns, that would be ideal. It would also be helpful if he can establish a routine for themselves in order to survive the periods in between the torture sessions.

With all of that taken note of, Zephyr decided to spend a day or two gathering information on anything that could help them. With his top priority being to preserve Scourge's health and recovery, he has decided that any meals given to them would mostly go to Scourge. Zephyr has learned to survive on much less against more powerful foes. He had a smaller, athletic build and frequent fasting helped him learn to curb his hunger. If necessary, he could sustain himself with the Force if all else does not go according to plan.

When the mongrel turned away from their cell and ventured on to his next victim, Zephyr turned towards Scourge's unconscious form and slowly crawled towards him. He gingerly reached out and touched the man's shoulder, scanning diligently for broken bones and hidden injuries. He frowned as he noted the shallow, painful breaths and the aborted motions of the diaphragm. Looking up, he noticed the tense expression on the Sith's face, lined with pain and fatigue even in unconsciousness. Zephyr crawled back and sat down, shutting his eyes as he concentrated on drawing strength from the Force.

He sharpened his focus and awareness around Scourge. He sharpened his awareness of every laboured breath, every twitch of strained muscle, and every injury. He turned his attention towards the broken ribs around the torso region and gently let his awareness explore the extent of the injuries. He identified three cracked ribs in total, with a few partial fractures on the other ribs. He inhaled deeply and surrendered himself to the rhythm of the Force, gently announcing his intent to heal and repair.

He diverted most of his current energy to the broken bones and ruthlessly imagined them mending themselves. He pictured them slowly reattaching themselves back into their proper places. He imagined them gently mending any fractures and breaks at the molecular level. When he was finished with one rib, he moved on to the next and repeated the work with brutal efficiency. When he was done repairing even the minor fractures, he stepped back and forced his attention to look for any other signs of injury, and he identified a few more minor wounds. He skimmed over each area, systematically mending the open wound and knitting them together. With each passing second, he felt a little more of that pain and exhaustion leaving the Sith's body. He looked through the eyes of the Force one last time, and he was satisfied when he saw no signs of the original injuries that plaqued the Sith's body.

When he opened his eyes, his shoulders drooped. He exhaled shakily as he suddenly felt his entire body trembling. He heard his own shallow breathing and he cursed himself for not paying attention to his own limits. He felt his hands trembling and he clenched them. He looks back up at Scourge and exhales in relief. Scourge was still unconscious and he was now breathing normally, but at least he didn't have to worry about broken bones when he woke up.

He slowly crawled towards the Sith and quietly laid down next to him. He turned his back towards the force-field barrier, a precaution to protect them both. He turned on his side and pressed himself against his partner's side, pressing his head against the broad shoulder. He shut his eyes and forced himself to sleep.

* * *

When he came to, he woke up to the faint smell of food and the sounds of a platter sliding across the floor. He opened his eyes and looked at Scourge and felt his heart sinking as he realized that the Sith was still asleep, oblivious to the world. It seemed that Scourge endured more than he first thought. When he diverted his attention to the movement behind him, he listened, feigning unconsciousness in order to ascertain their current situation.

"Here's your food," male voice, nervous, young. A young male, possibly Human. "Thrash got a bit violent with your cell mate. I'm sorry about that. I don't know if you can hear me, but I don't condone that treatment. I hope he's alright."

He heard some shuffling sound behind him. "I'll try to bring you and your partner more food but I don't know what I'll do if they find out. I wish I could do more for you and the others here, but the boss kills anyone that plays nice with the prisoners."

He heard some more of that shuffling sound. "Well, good night."

From beyond the force-field barrier to the cell, he saw the light sources powered down, followed by the ominous hissing of durasteel doors being closed. The red glare of the force-field barrier was the only source of lighting they had.

He slowly rolled on his side, careful not to disturb his sleeping companion whose arm somehow found its way around his waist. He squinted his eyes and quietly crawled towards the platter that was placed down near the barrier. He sat down and quickly examined the contents on the platters. It turned out that there were two platters that were left for them, which surprised him because he expected slim rations based on the reputation of the prison warden.

There wasn't much but it was more than he expected. Half a slice of bantha steak, small jug of water, a small rice bowl, and bone broth soup. It was the first meal they received since they were captured. If he conserved three-quarters of his own platter and saved them for Scourge, he wouldn't need to worry in the event that their food supply was cut off temporarily.

He leaned back, a plan forming in his mind.

Instinct told him that this kind of meal provision was unusual and not exactly on the order of the warden. Prisoners would have normally received a fraction of what they got. Whoever was kind enough to leave them this much food clearly knew the rules surrounding the treatment of prisoners and the punishments meted out if one of the handlers ever got too close and empathetic with the captives. Not only that, but the sheer level of ease by which their good Samaritan was able to smuggle in this much food meant that they had been doing this for some time now. Experienced enough to get away with this, but cautious enough not to get caught.

He doesn't know if meals could be regularly expected at regular hours during their time as captives. And with the uncertainty brought about the fact that any one of then could be extracted from the cell at any time, for whatever reason, they will need to be on guard at all times. Therefore, it was only logical to conserve as much of the food they are given.

He'll have to act fast and brutally if they are to escape the prison. The mere fact that they were kidnapped in the middle of what should have been a diplomatic mission meant that there were nuances he missed, and that whoever organized this clearly had some level of operational complexity. He'll need to know if the enemy he's dealing with is smart and experienced. And that knowledge only comes by reconnaisance.

He exhaled slowly while clenching his jaw.

When the time comes, blood will bathe the entirety of the enemy's stronghold. No one messes with his Alliance and dares to walk away unscathed.

A small, aborted groan echoed throughout the cell. He turns and looks over his shoulder to see Scourge raising his hand, pressing it gingerly against his chest as if to look for signs of his past injuries. A pinched expression appears on his companion's face and he feels a flash of anxiety pulse through him. He turns around and immediately sits down at the Sith's side, laying a hand on the Sith's chest and gently urging him to lay back. Even though he cannot see well through the darkness of their cell, he could feel the questioning gaze pinned on him and he could also sense the confusion radiating from the Sith.

"Easy. Take it slow," Zephyr whispered. He could feel the Sith relaxing a little as soon as he spoke. "You're still recovering."

"Zephyr?" Scourge croaked. "I - I remember pain. I could have sworn I had a few broken bones."

Zephyr stiffened in hesitation, mentally taking a step back to analyze his situation.

Should he lie and say one of the handlers came in with a kolto shot that mended his wounds?

Or should he come clean and tell the truth?

He felt Scourge stiffening up beneath his hand, and he could feel an scrutinizing gaze pinning him to the ground. "Zephyr? What happened?"

Zephyr sighed, pursing his lip in resignation. "I used the Force to heal you," he murmured, looking down where he expected Scourge to be looking at him. "I'm not sure if I fixed everything, but you'll have to tell me if I missed anything."

He felt a strong pulse of surprise and disbelief radiating from Scourge, so much so that it nearly unbalanced him. "You _healed_ me? All of my wounds?"

He blinked. "Well, yes? That's . . . exactly what I said."

"Remarkable," Scourge muttered, and Zephyr could not mistake the astonishment and genuine admiration he sensed from his partner. "I never knew you were capable of such a feat."

He felt warmth pooling in his cheeks. He lowers his chin against his chest, feeling a small twitch of genuine happiness fluttering in gut. "It's nothing," he cleared his throat. "I couldn't leave you alone with those broken ribs. They - they looked like it hurt. So, I did a thing. Hope it's good for now. Until we can get you in a kolto tank or something --"

"Zephyr."

He closed his jaw, blinking in confusion as he felt a large, warm hand cupping his cheek. He blinked as he felt a thumb brushing his cheek, and then he averted his eyes as realization dawns on him. He frowns a little as he feels his heart leaping into his throat, hammering away at the unexpected tenderness in that gesture alone. A burst of relief washes over him and he feels his lips quirking upwards into a small smile, as Scourge gently pulled him downwards.

He shuts his eyes as their lips met with a gentle greeting, and he couldn't help but feel his heart swelling at the amount of genuine affection that he felt radiating from the Sith. He could feel the small smile on Scourge's face as the Sith touched their foreheads together. He could feel the warm puffs of air blowing against his nose bridge with ever exhale from Scourge. He shuts his eyes and exhales in contentment, immersing himself in this temporary fantasy.

"Thank you, love," Scourge whispered tenderly in his low timbre, his thumb still gently running circles over his cheek. "What would I ever do without you? You are the wind in my sails, the rudder to my ship. They tried to break me. But I refused to bow. We survived worse together than they ever have dreamed of. I will not forget your sacrifice, dear one. When I am strong again, I will slay all of our enemies and lay them at your feet as a gift. I will gorge myself on their fears. I will bring you their heads and give them to you as gifts."

Zephyr ducked his head as he felt his face flaming in embarassment, and he could sense the amusement radiating from Scourge. "You're killing me over here. That's too much."

He huffed as he heard Scourge chuckling quietly. "Shy as ever, darling. I am starting to wonder if you don't secretly love it."

He sighed, shaking his head. "Come on. Make yourself useful. Eat your food. Here, I'll get it for you."

Scourge smirked at him. "If the Jedi decrees it, then so it shall be."

Zephyr pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing again. "Please save the flirting until _after_ we're out of this skug hole."

Scourge grinned, pulling him down again to press a quick kiss on his cheek. The Jedi let him, having long since given up on this matter.


	3. The Corpo-Rat (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyberpunk AU. 
> 
> Zephyr is the son of Reginald Tyrell, the CEO and founder of Tyrell Corporation. In the last 50 years, the Tyrell Corporation rose to power by securing the monopoly on corporate security, banking, and cyberware production. As the son and sole heir of a megacorporation executive, Zephyr constantly faces the pressure of hiding beneath his father's shadow of worldly success. Despite his father's draconian nature and authoritarian approach to maintaining order within Tyrell Corp, he does not inherit the criminally diabolical strain of psychopathy possessed by his father. Born to privilege but driven by a deep compassion for the people in his technopolis, he yearns to change the world through an idealistic vision.
> 
> On the night of the annual gala where Tyrell Corporation feigned about caring for the downtrodden populations of Chiba, Zephyr is the target for an assassination contract. When a skilled hitman tries to isolate him by means of seduction, things do not go to plan.

**Chiba Sector, Tyrell District**

The sky above the towering corporate arcologies was a lifeless sea of grey paste. Animated holograms of advertisements rotated around a cylindrical shape, crawling upwards to the sky in an infinite dance. Tens of stories below the vast rectangular window carved into his office, he numbly watches the two gargantuan holograms of eastern dragons coiling around each other, slithering around the mighty statue of Tyrell Corp's logo erected in his father's name, a symbol serving as the testament to Reginald's bottomless draconian lust for wealth acquisition. Miles above lay the infinite stretch of black cubes forming the ecosystem of Chiba's corporate world, a microcosm of social Darwinism and the hedonistic indulgence of Machiavellianism set on a permanent state of repeat, destined to play out to eternity.

An intricate and connected system of viper nests and arachnid webs where ambitions come to die beneath a mounting layer of dried, bleeding corpses. In the bellies of each viper nest, money changes hands and allegiances shift at the drop of a credit chip.

The very same cutthroat mentality of his father has trickled down and infected each and every cell in this corporate ecosystem, down to the infinitesimal root. A living pus, generating a noxious fume that always draws out the worst in people. He has seen it, time and time again, turn every kind heart that still beat a living pulse into a walking meat machinery of apathy and ruthlessness. And then there were a few kind souls that couldn't survive the "professional requests" of their senior executives required to surgically excise their good-hearted humanity. Only two ways it could end for that poor group. They either jumped off the balcony of their offices after reaching their moral limits or found themselves flatlined by an _onmitsu_ , neural matter and organic innards scattered on the windows and smeared like crushed meatcakes. Such callous disregard for life, satisfied in the pit of his father's draconian reign over Chiba and the technopolises beyond.

And tonight, the dragon of Tyrell will host a lavish banquet, an annual gala designed to cater only to the megarich and once again remind the public and divided lower socioeconomic classes the extravagant waste of oxygen the megarich produce by continuing to exist. A filthy waste of oxygen and a horrid investment for the carbon cycle of matter.

Zephyr pulls his lip back in a small curl of distaste as the vile force of his anger once again settles at the base of his stomach. A red circle flashed incessantly at the corner of his vision and a scroll of surveillance footage rolled across his ocular implants. He blinked and remotely established a secure link to the security cam to glance closer at the visitor. When he saw who stood outside the ballistic-proof twin glass doors, he suddenly straightened his back, adopting a solid stance by instinct. He reluctantly retreats a hand from the pocket of his dress pants and flicks his wrist, and the twin glass doors parted with a negligible hiss of air. He shuts his eyes and slowly let some of the air out of his nose.

"I apologize for disturbing your solitude, but I am afraid your father insists on requiring your presence."

He opens his eyes and cranes his neck slightly, not enough to glance back at his retainer, but enough to signal his displeasure. "If this is about my presence in tonight's gala, I've made it clear that I will attend. If that is all he requires, then he knows where to find me if he wishes to talk further."

He breathes in, and breathes out. This was just a mere messenger, nothing more and nothing less. He _knows_ that voice. The voice that still tugs at his heart. But those dreams died a stillborn death, and he was a naive young fool who got carried away with unrealistic expectations. He was a fool, and now he wasn't anymore. He grew up in the last ten years. He swore not to follow his father's example of cruelty. But sometimes it became hard to see how different he really was if he never truly abided by his private convictions, so profoundly hurtful it was to get disappointed, turn after turn.

He slowly turns around and pins a frosty glare on the messenger, and he nearly stumbles back when a sudden weakness of the heart clenches his chest at the sight of that familiar face again. A face he has not seen in ten years. He comes face to face with the light-toned, angular face of Junichiro Watanabe. The son of Ichigo Watanabe, loyal and close friend of his adopted grandfather, Ryūken Hashibira. Junichiro was sworn to service as protector and bodyguard of Tyrell's heir, to the end of his days. He clamped down on the surge of emotion running rampant through his body and composed his facial features to a mask of bored annoyance. But a part of him was still a man born of weak flesh, and he couldn't quite help the assessing eye that scoped out the entirety of Junichiro's burly physique.

The sudden mental contrast drawn up by his memory banks almost threw him into a state of dissonance, for so stark was the difference between the man he remembered ten years ago and the one standing before him in the flesh.

Almost a decade his senior in age, Junichiro has matured finely into a strong and capable _samurai_. Sharp cheekbones paired with a pair of dark eyes that could pierce through diamonds, the man cut an intimidating figure in his designer suit. Decked out with the latest military-grade cybernetics that the market could buy, he is essentially the deadliest weapon a corporate family could wield when it comes to protecting their biological assets. Thin lines of microfibre wires and lined the contour of his cheekbones, tracing back to a neurochip embedded on the sides of his head. Rich, short ebony hair drawn neatly back into a disciplined ponytail. It perfectly painted the picture of a disciplined corporate soldier, trained from birth to his dying breath to protect Tyrell's most important asset.

Hands clasped before his waist, waiting in silence as Zephyr continued studying him.

Junichiro had been his only childhood friend, and his first love. A lover of only one year, he remembered bitterly and with stinging clarity. Before his stubborn retainer suddenly distanced from him, breaking off their relationship under the cold guise of following his code of honor above everything else. Junichiro was, indeed, an honorable and principled man. He could not have asked for a better and fiercer protector. But nothing ever remained the same since that night, that night he had his heart broken to a million shards. Junichiro broke apart from him, because he felt it more important to fulfill his sense of duty to Reginald, his own father, above him. His father's interests, as always, is put ahead of his own, just like it has always been.

The looming shadow of his father's fist hung like a watchful vulture, always observing, ever scheming for more ways to ensnare his own son into the rotten bowels of the Tyrell legacy. It rots everything it touches. It destroys everything it sees. It nearly destroyed his hope and will to live.

Looking at Junichiro now, a part of him callously wondered if he could hang the sword of Damocles over his former friend's neck. He fantasized, perhaps desperately so, the pure and underhanded gratification he would feel if he mentioned his suicide attempt with the indifference of a bored jungle cat. A part of him still festers, stinging and hurting, an open jagged wound that never quite healed from the stabbing to the heart. It never quite healed properly. He wants to _see_ if he ever even meant anything to anyone. Under normal circumstances, he would never even bother entertaining the thought.

But tonight is the night of the annual gala, and it has always been a private tradition of his to brood and be a slight touch more temperamental. For the last ten years, he has carefully sowed the seeds. The hyenas of Chiba were the news and media people, and every single one of them panted after the scraps he tossed to them. He has done everything possible to contradict any expectations the elites might have of the notorious Emperor's son. Cold, brooding, introverted, callous, indifferent. Those were a few of the words used to describe him. Some have described him as a walking ivory statue, admired from a distance but to be maintained at arm's length. Others doubted if he even was human, for so few were his engagements with the public. He has endeavored to be as scarce as possible, barely a ghost compared to the overwhelming, larger-than-life presence of his father. It made it easier to keep the public guessing what he was about to do next.

Because for the last decade, he has been quietly sowing the seeds for his father's quiet destruction.

"Speak. I don't have all day," he says slowly, punctuating each word with the frostiness of an iceberg.

Junichiro hid his flinch well, but Zephyr has had years more experience in reading the subtleties of the human body to let such a thing slide. Despite having eight years on him, Junichiro's gaze slipped downwards as he bowed his head. "Your father wishes to have a word with you at his penthouse in the 300th floor. I apologize, but he has not revealed anything more to me that I can relay for you. It is urgent."

Zephyr blinked glacially, letting his eyes linger for a few seconds on Junichiro, whose head was still bowed in a sign of professional respect. Zephyr felt a corner of his mouth twitch in displeasure as he takes measured steps towards his bodyguard. They may no longer be on intimate standing with each other, but the reptilian side of him had eagerly awaited the moment where he could force Junichiro to reveal his hand. He takes slow and measured steps until he is barely a foot's length away from Junichiro's massive profile. Junichiro was always the taller one of them both, even in childhood, and it now offered the perfect spot for him to callously take advantage of his position in the pecking order. Ten years separated them from each other, but now standing face to face again, has dredged up old memories that he couldn't afford to revisit again. He will shred this last tie to his past self, if he ever wants to enact the plans he waited ten years to put in motion.

For all of Oda's training with the bodyguards assigned to Tyrell's elite, Junichiro never quite concealed the sharp inhalation of breath that Zephyr heard with his acute sense of hearing. His ocular implants are military-grade and picked up on Junichiro's biofeedback data and displayed them across his cornea. Junichiro's pulse rate was elevated beyond normal levels and he even detected a sharp increase in arousal, a sign that his bodyguard's desire warred against his code of honour.

So, the great Watanabe is still human after all. Still remembered the violence of banal animal desires, still able to vividly recall the nights and stolen moments of intimacy. Only for it to be ruined in one night when Junichiro confronted him with all the coldness and callousness of a _shinobi_ , treating him like the target of a corporate assassination contract. It left his heart in shreds.

There were no happy endings for people like him. Everyone else deserved love, except the ones that played the corpo game for too long. Many envied his position, would kill for it, and have literally killed for it. But what they didn't know is that it enslaved him to the same degree as everyone else is enslaved in this city. It was merely a case of having different cages and leashes.

"You leave for ten years, without so much as a word. Not even a call. And just days before, you return back to the fold," he said slowly with halting iciness. Zephyr leaned in and gazed up frigidly into his former lover's eyes, unflinchingly and brazenly. "You are not my messenger. I am not obligated to do anything. I will come and go as I please. I will attend the gala tonight. But I will not entertain my father's requests to fill his past time with my presence. I am not his toy."

When he steps back, he nearly flinches in surprise at the vice-like grip around his arm. Years of training his composure stamped out that weakness from him. He cranes his neck and looks back at his new bodyguard, schooling his expression into one of cold apathy. A small spark of that righteous fury flickered behind Junichiro's composed features, and the sight of it was so gratifying it ignited a fire of rebelliousness in his bones.

"What's this?" Zephyr allowed an amused smile to leak out of his face, a carefully orchestrated act of amused cruelty that served as the latest addition to his toolbox. "Are you threatening me?"

Junichiro's eyes darkened, but the man released the grip on his arm, if somewhat stiffly and reluctantly. "You've changed, Zephyr."

"A broken heart will do that to you," Zephyr laughed cruelly, despite the bitter taste beneath his tongue. "Oh, by the way, did I ever mention that when you left, I jumped down Lionsbridge?" He stepped back, shoving his hands into the pockets on his black business slacks. This time, a certain kind of stillness took root in Junichiro's body, and Zephyr could see the surprise in his eyes, along with the flinch that escaped the man's control. "If it wasn't for my platinum status, MedTech would've never found me alive. You left me. You were the world to me. But I wasn't enough for you."

Like he said, there were no happy endings for ones like him. Used, beat up, damaged goods.

Junichiro took a step forward, but he stepped back, and they both stared at each other. A part of him was screeching in glee because finally, there was a dent in that chrome armor of his former friend.

" _Don't._ It's over. You were dead to me nine years ago," he spat coldly. "If you came here seeking to make amends, you are ten years too late."

The last part of his naive youth flatlined at that moment. It drove the thorns deeper but the need to carry on outweighs the pain.

* * *

When the fateful hour struck, the clock howled and the event of the night commenced. A night of debauchery and shifting allegiances funded by New Euros. Every ten blocks on a square mile was locked down by the most expensive security money could buy. Block after block of paramilitary forces on standby, watching over the lively streets and parades like hawks and eagles. Vibrancy of social energy matched the intensity of the light cast by the neon holograms and lights that traced lattices of vertical cubes. Multidimensional holograms of dragons, lions, tigers, and birds of prey swathed the pale grey streets in baths of neon and halogen gas hues.

The party of the year, which often followed the highest number of murders, thefts, kidnappings of corpos and destruction of corporate property by underground political activist groups. One night of the year where the corporate elites allowed the dredges of the lower class to stroll into their land and mingle with one another. Polar opposites meeting for a night and parting with a mutual agreement. Tonight, nothing else matters on both sides. A peace treaty of sorts.

For the first time in decades, he decided to switch up his routine for the media hounds to gobble up. The notorious heir of Tyrell never showed up to any of the annual galas, until now. They would be left speculating madly. But personally, this decision was more calculated than borne of sentimental origin. In the last several months, he made it no secret. He deliberately dropped the news to several media sources that he planned on breaking his tradition and attend the gala. As predicted, they gobbled it up. And of course, as per usual, flocks of the corporate elite showed up in droves tonight, hoping to score a drop of favor from him. The Prince of Chiba's corporate ranks.

Tonight, he planned on indulging himself before enacting his plans. Make a show of finally giving into the deranged and mandatory hedonism that much of the corpo elite partakes in. A certain flutter of excitement is buzzing within his gut, and he somehow knew at that moment that something interesting would happen tonight. No other time of the year did the rest of the Chiba class have such unprecedented access to the corporate elites. Someone was bound to surely attempt something bold, as has always been tradition with this gala. And somehow, he knew that he was the biggest attraction of the night.

For the sake of his boredom, he certainly hopes to meet someone interesting tonight.

If all cards are played right, he will attract the kind of danger necessary to bring Reginald Tyrell to his knees. And if not, then at least he is spared knowing of the horrors that will follow if he continued living.

He is tired of living under his father's draconian wings.

He gazes at the mirror, eyeing himself down the white elegant suit he chose for the occasion. It was mostly white, but accented with a sharp jet-black on the collars, the edges of his sleeves, and the shoulders. He had it custom-fit with a bulletproof inner lining, a contingency in case tonight's endeavors turn into a bloodbath, which was always a possibility. The cold glare of his ocular implants stare back at him, artificial cerulean irises projecting the right type of corporate haughtiness he perfected to razor accuracy. His raven hair was trimmed to be even shorter for this occasion, slicked back into an ivory finish. Thin lines of microfibre circuit were embedded into his pale cheekbones, tracing out linear paths to his temples, a link to an elite-class cyberdeck. He lifts a hand and tugs against his sleeve one last time, double checking the fit.

With a small smirk, he steps away from the mirror and exits the bathroom.

By now, he has rehashed this plan over and over again in his mind that he practically operates on autopilot as he casually walks to the nearest bar that didn't have too much of a crowd. The annual gala may have opened its doors to the rest of Chiba to enter, but there were still some levels of clearance injected into the night's events in order to lessen the chance of it becoming a logistical nightmare. High-end clients mostly partied in private and most are invitation only. But there were several levels of public access, and he had to be careful of choosing the one that would fit his needs. He rode the elevator to the 45th level, where most of the mid-upper end of the elites were confined to mingle.

When the elevator doors parted, he managed to weave his way through the crowd amd for once, he was thankful for this brief anonymity. He slowed down a little to scan the security on the floor. Two GRIMTax snipers on the upper shafts, three AutoMechs, and four cyborgs on standby for defense. He picked up his pace. When he saw a sparsely populated bar, he backtracked and grabbed a spare seat somewhere in the middle.

As soon as he sat down, he felt his hackles rising as a few pair of eyes settled on him with naked interest. For all of his years of training composure, he couldn't help the slight sliver of anticipation and dread that curled above his chest. He shook it off and rested his hands on the bar. The female bartender looked up and gave him a smoky smirk, one which had his gut flipping. She leaned in closer to him and he had to swallow his nerves as subtly as he could, for he could never be certain who was watching him now. He still felt eyes on him, and a small part of him starts doubting if this was even a smart plan at all.

"Well, well, if it ain't the Prince of Chiba himself coming to grace us with his presence," she drawled, leaning back a little now that she has taken a good glance at him. "What can I get for you, darling?"

_Play it cool. Play it down._

"Blackhand special," he said quietly. "Three shots."

The bartender smirks. "Blackhand? Never got that one since the start of tonight. Interesting choice."

Despite himself, his cheeks flamed with embarassment. He looks down at his hands. "Well, used to be a fan, way back when."

"Any favourite tracks?"

"'Feed The Wolf', was my personal favourite," he absently replied.

The bartender nodded, giving him another smirk before moving on to the next patron that took a seat far to his right.

He shifted his eyes to give a quick glance around the bar, noting the few corpos, street mercs and joytoys that have suddenly developed a keen interest for him. He wasn't new to the experience of being the object of scrutiny, much less the subject of objectification, but there was something heart-pounding and exhilirating about being thrown into the lion's den without any form of protection. Even under the invasive lens of the media hounds and paparazzi, he never felt this razor-edged adrenaline surge that coated his blood vessels tonight. Everything was mind-dizzyingly different. The adrenaline surge was intoxicating and he's finding it a little harder to keep his head cool.

He keeps his gaze trained on the octagon-shaped shot glasses on the bar, making a show of slowly picking up one and lifting the edge of the shot glass to his lips. There was nothing remotely provoking about the act of drinking a shot, but even then, he can feel the heated gazes of the small crowd raking up and down his suited figure. He puts the glass down and draws his chin closer to his chest, swallowing down the rest of the tequila.

It wasn't much of a surprise then that he picked up on the heated presence of a bold predator breaking away from the throng hovering just at the edges of the crowd that roughky surrounded him. Even under the assault of the gnarly EDM music blasting through the expensive speakers, it was hard not to shut off that part of his brain geared to scanning his enviroment. He remains still and calmly seated even when he senses that bold presence approaching him from behind. From outside, he looks vulnerable and out of place. But even the dumbest gonk in Chiba wouldn't make the mistake of presuming he's a shy, vulnerable vixen. As privately estranged as he is from his father, he has his own cocktail of venom at the ready.

But that's precisely why he's doing this. Call it extremly risky, but he is confident he can pull the greatest reversal in this wretched city's history. If he is correct on his hunch, and he usually is, someone will most likely make an attempt on his life tonight. He practically sowed the seeds, hyping up the illusion of his vulnerability tonight. Any fixer worth their name in this city would be a either a complete maniac or complete fool not to at least organize a hit squad to take him out. He wasn't a fool. He knows the sentiment of the working class and the oppressed against his father. If they can't lash out at the Dragon, they will settle for the beating pulse on his neck.

Tonight, he's open to surrendering to the flow of fate. He might walk away netting the biggest catch of the year. Or he could die in the puddle of his own spit and blood. Either way, he partially gets what he wants. If he dies, then at least he doesn't have to contend with seeing the horrors of his family name's legacy. If he succeeds and lives, he'll take down the Dragon and he'll finally enact the plans he's spent tirelessly for the last decade working to perfect. Either way, however it ends, it would be a relief. For no one has any ounce of knowledge of how tired he is of living underneath the shadow of the Tyrell dragon's wing.

He feels the dull, warm pulse of a large hand meeting the small of his back. He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, sinking back into that familiar routine all those years ago when he was the subject of freqeunt seduction. The stranger's hand leaves a slow, teasing trail up his spinal column. This wasn't the first time he was taken to bed, but it has been far too long since he felt it, felt this surge of adrenaline. Despite his attempt to play it cool, there was something subtly different about this prospect. He couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. It seems his bodily reaction didn't escape this mysterious guest, because he felt a thumb teasingly dipping into the small space between his carbonweave suit and trousers, rubbing small circles on his pale skin.

Even as he feels that intimidating physical presence crowding behind him and beside him, as it settles on leaning against the bar, he makes a show of calmly grabbing another glass and tipping it back into his mouth. The hand on the small of his back never leaves. With every breath of his gut, he feels it sticking there, like the edge of a concealed dagger waiting to spring. When he brings the glass down, he deliberately brings it down a little harder than he usually would. It doesn't seem to surprise the stranger, but he's in the modd to play hard to get. What he's planning won't work if there's too many eyes and ears, literally and figuratively.

Whoever this was, he will need to scope them out. But for now, he's giving himself permission to enjoy himself and play a little.

He puts on the act of being dismissive and abrasive. "Not in the mood, joytoy. If someone from the Rox sent you as a twisted prank, I'll flatline them myself."

In a second, he feels a searing heat clamping over the back of his neck in a controlled squeeze and a scorching heat of that massive frame blanketing his entire side. Hot breath hissed past his ear and he felt his eyes widening in surprise, heart pounding with a surge of heated excitement. He remains seated, frozen in anticipation. The hand on his nape squeezes a little tighter and he blinks with his eyelids half-closed, shuddering at the unexpected jolt of delight running down his spine.

He swallowed hard, and it seems that his guest took notice because he felt that hand squeezing just a little tighter. This was an interesting turn to the night.

"You derived pleasure from it," a deep baritone purred so delightfully into his ear. "I can see your heart rate, little lamb. It beats like a race horse."

Even so, he plays along and smirks. "Aren't you a dangerous fella. I'd have to see it to believe it. As much I want to, I have other and more pressing matters to attend to. Like I said, I'm not in the mood."

"Your body says otherwise," the mysterious stranger purrs again into his ear, the man's large hand gradually softening the grip on his nape to massage the fluttering of his carotid artery. "Right here, I feel it skipping. Your breaths, becoming shallower."

He shuts his eyes, deliberately feigning the act of being overwhelmed. He sells the realism by deliberately making his breaths shallower, as if he was drowning in pleasure. The bait was taken and he feels his seducer's hand inching lower his body, grazing past his chest, down to his nether regions. He swallows hard, and for a brief moment, he suddenly doubts his ability to keep it cool as he feels a visceral pulse of arousal jolting through him. It was so violent he had to pause, but it only made him gasp involuntarily when he felt the stranger's hand teasingly trace the outline of his arousal.

He sensed his seducer's gratification and a part of him is mortified at losing this game they played. "Did you like that, little kitten? I wonder how long it has been since someone took you to bed and had their way with you. You probably like it, being taken rough and proper like a bitch in heat."

He opens his eyes and feels his cheeks flushing with crimson. This was perhaps the most innocent dirty talk he's ever heard in all the years he's been fucked by one-timers, and yet, it makes his blood run hotter than a diesel engine. There was just something different about this one, this seducer that just boldly walked up to feel and started copping a feel. This was his element and he seems to have found his match tonight.

Then he is going to give as good as he takes.

He cranes his neck and gazes up the hulking figure leaning on the bar beside him, whose face was angled down at his. Still feeling where this man's hand is roaming without shame, he gently grabs it and gives it a gentle squeeze, laying his own hand atop his seducer's. He takes his other hand and lets it rest gently on the man's torso. He slowly trails his fingers up to his mysterious seducer's thick, muscular neck. He smirks as he feels his seducer's hand twitching and fumbling a little, and he takes advantage of this by leaning in closer until they were nose to nose. He shuts his eyes and swallows hard, fully aware of the man's fascination with the muscles working furiously at his neck as he swallows back. When he feels his seducer's heated breath ghosting on the shell of his ear, he lets his hand curl tighter around the side of the man's neck and _pushes hard_.

He leans closer to the man's ear and smirks as he heard the frustrated and surprised growl of a predator denied its prey. "This isn't my first rodeo, _joytoy_. You're right about many things. But I didn't stay at the top because I was the innocent flower you think I am. You'll have to try harder than that if you want your cock tearing through my ass. I know men like you. You're hung like bulls. But damn, aren't you a meathead like the rest. Nice try. But I won't be your bitch tonight. Find some other corpo to feel up."

He smirks and gently release the vice-like grip he had on his seducer's neck. A bright series of notifications flash across his optical implants and he smirks again. The ping test came back positive and he finally has confirmation that his seducer wasn't a lone agent after all. It took a little work but he managed to secure a one-way link where he could eavesdrop on the sublink communication his seducer was connected to. He takes advantage of the stranger's shock and he calmly slides of the bar stool. He looks back up at his seducer and gives him a smoky smirk, chuckling at the frustration he sees lurking in those eyes.

_"That son of a bitch. Look at him, smug little shit. I told you earlier he was playing you! Why didn't you listen?"_

He turns around and walks away, smirking to himself as he waits for the storm to reveal itself.

_"There is only so much we can predict. I will have to improvise. I'll find a way to kill him without raising any alarms."_

_"Do it on the hush-hush. If word gets out that we stole this contract from Rogue's favourite netrunner, she will zero our fat asses! I don't have enough eddies on hand to save your sorry ass if you cock this up!"_

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2**


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